You’re an original, baby, just like everyone else

My grandfather used to paint wall-sized tigers on long paper scrolls. His steady hand drew fierce, dark strokes, crafting the coat mark by mark, a tally of time and ink to track the creation of his art. Nobody creates beauty like that any more, not even my grandfather. He wanders the park near his home now, and takes long naps in a brown leather chair, the soft sunlight stirring dust motes as he quietly breathes into the afternoon.

It’s a different kind of art that he’s left me, older than the two generations that separate us. There’s something contemplative and solid about it, as though he layered moments of his life into each line, folding secrets and breaths into each hidden color.

Three of his children became artists, but none of them followed his form — one prefers the brash geometry of modern art; the other two love the immediacy of pencil. My own art resides in pixelated images. We’ve lost the substance of his work, so we try to compensate with proliferation; we produce piece after piece to equal one of his.

I sometimes wonder what I’ll pass on to my own grandchildren, but I know it won’t be my art — there’s no story to what I create, no image evoked beyond what is immediately seen. Most modern aesthetics push me forward, concentrating on perception and reaction, not retroactive reflection, but my grandfather’s paintings… well, there’s a life behind each one — a glimpse of time captured in each stroke, something more vibrant than the man he is now. It’s both sad and wonderful. Like I said: nobody creates beauty like that anymore. Not even him.

ornithophobia

L’amour est un oiseau rebelle / Que nul ne peut apprivoiser

(”Love is a rebellious bird that nobody can tame”)

55Fiction Friday

A little girl and her mother lie on cartoon-printed sheets.

“Do I get the whole cookie now?”

“Yes, sweetie.”

“Who gets to sit in the blue chair?”

“You can.”

The little girl purses her lips, then shakes her head. “I don’t want his spot.” She wriggles away, leaving a small warm body space between them.

You are what you love, not what loves you back

They stand beside Anna’s car as the cooling engine pops softly. The sun sets over the lake, its reflection dissolving in slim gold undulations.

Squares of yellow light blink on in houses on the opposite shore. It has been a long day. Anna stops about a foot from the waterline and draws out one hand, holding the key loosely in her palm, fingertips curled and hovering. He closes his eyes against the smoke-smudged horizon.

Anna scuffs a shoe over the wet sand and he opens his eyes, watching as she clenches her fist, then suddenly throws the key. It sinks out of sight like a metal fish.

“One,” she says.

“What?”

“Only one. I guess keys don’t make good skipping stones.”

As they return to her car, he’s glad he’s not driving because he wouldn’t have known where to go.

back to square one

Why do people run away?

Because they feel lost already and they believe that movement can counteract the dizziness. It’s like turning yourself in the opposite direction after whirling in place, trying to reverse the revolving world and your spinning mind along with it.

But you never can.

Why do people come back? Because when you howl into the canyon, you always hear the echo right back where you begin. You can ask the world where you should be and if you listen, –if you listen, the world tells you exactly where you belong.

beautiful sorta

She’s a tall woman, her thin shoulders and flat chest perpetually folded inward as though she were cold. Lovely smile, but she spoke with a slight lisp, like you had just caught her with her mouth full.

55Fiction Friday

Anna’s best friend calls from Boston. She says, It’s cold. I miss you. Can I borrow your dress?

Anna’s boyfriend calls from Boston. He says, It’s cold. I miss you. I’m going to see a movie and think about you.

Anna’s best friend calls from Boston. It was so cold. We missed you. I’m sorry.

fire green as grass

An hour slipped past as we slept and daylight lingers now, long and late and sweet, like waking softly from a Sunday morning dream.

Spring in the South approaches shyly, quiet and blue sky-ed, pale sun twirling nervously through slender tree limbs.

like a flashbulb to the face

“Hey, with your sunglasses and your scarf wrapped like that, you look like Grace Kelly.”

“Oo. I like that. She was so cool. She was black, right?”

“…no. Grace Kelly was not black.”

“But wasn’t she like an African princess?”

“What? NO.”

“Yeah! Princess of Morocco, right?”

55Fiction Friday

**First attempt at this. Not quite a story, but maybe I’ll get there with a little practice.

The fair marked every summer’s end.

He sees her the first night. Pale yellow dress, a breath of powdered sugar on her cheek. He pictures thumbing it off, licking the sweetness. A passing red balloon taps her shoulder.

They stand among pastel dots of gum in the grass.

“Cold?”

“Every year. One day I’ll learn.”